P5 

184  O 

H2.62.T 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Runaway 
Rhymes  * 


(Limited) 


*  James 
Clarence 
Ijaroey 

HJH 


PRIVATELY 
PUBLISHED 


H 


The  verses  in  this  little  pamphlet  make  no  claim  to  recogni 
tion  from  the  usually  recognized  canons  of  true  poetry.  They 
are  merely  sketches,  unrevised,  untouched  and  most  thoroughly 
impromptu,  written  as  one  would  write  a  letter  to  a  friend  and 
sent  to  the  printer  with  all- the  ear-marks  of  hasty  production. 
They  are  only  heart  beats  given  a  more  tangible  shape.  To 
those  who  recognized  the  heart  throbs  at  their  birth  they  will 
be  dear,  and  it  is  to  them  they  are  given  in  new  form.  If  others 
find  a  line  or  thought  to  please,  or  cheer  or  amuse,  it  will  be 
an  added  joy  to  those  already  known  in  the  family  circle  where 
they  found  expression. 

Were  they  more  worthy  of  wider  consideration  a  difficulty 
would  arise  as  to  a  dedication.  To  particularize  would  be  to 
assign  to  them  a  dignity  they  do  not  possess,  they  may,  there 
fore,  be  laid  as  carelessly  as  written  at  the  threshold  of 


762899 


feinee. 

[Written  and  read  by  James  Clarence  Harvey  at  the  presentation  of  a 
bronze  bust  of  Tom  L.  Johnson  to  Mrs.  Johnson,  in  celebration  of  her 
husband's  forty-third  birthday.] 


The  lilt  of  a  rhyme  must  pass  away, 

As  the  scrolls  of  time  unroll, 
And  the  breathing  canvas  must  decay 

Though  it  echoes  a  human  soul; 
The  carven  stone,  as  the  hours  fly  past, 

Will  crumble  in  time  to  dust, 
But  the  molded  bronze  is  made  to  last 

'Neath  its  countless  years  of  rust. 

But  what  has  been  given  the  sons  of  earth 

That  is  worthy  to  so  endure? 
Is  aught  that  we  know  such  homage  worth, 

From  the  taint  of  earth  so  pure? 
The  beauty  of  youth  is  a  thing  of  to-day, 

A  king  on  a  trembling  throne; 
We  sigh  with  regret  when  old  and  gray 

For  the  treasure  so  swiftly  flown. 

The  tender  ring  of  a  voice  that  is  true 

Elusive  must  ever  be; 
No  art  can  give  it  the  reverence  due 

That  others  may  bend  the  knee. 
The  glance  of  an  eye  is  a  transient  thing. 

That  is  gone  ere  the  glance  is  born, 
Like  the  song  of  a  bird  that  awakes  to  sing 

To  the  first  faint  rays  of  morn. 


But  out  from  the  soul  there  is  one  thing  sweet, 

Set  free  from  all  thought  of  guile, 
To  serve  as  a  guide  to  wandering  feet, 

'Tis  the  warmth  of  a  sunny  smile. 
It  will  change  the  deserts  to  flowering  plains. 

Bring  drink  to  the  thirsting  sod, 
Change  all  our  losses  to  lasting  gains, 

Like  a  Heaven-sent  gift  from  God. 

And  the  inner  chambers  of  memory  hold, 

More  dear  than  a  hoarded  pile, 
More  precious  than  garnered  heaps  of  gold, 

The  joy  of  an  honest  smile. 
So  the  lasting  bronze,  if  it  will  but  serve, 

The  heart  that  would  cherish,  hails; 
Since  the  halting  lines  of  the  poet  swerve, 

And  the  sculptor's  chisel  fails. 

And  the  smile  shall  live,  though  the  years  that  were 

Shall  be  lost  in  the  years  to  be, 
And  the  heart  of  a  future  age  shall  stir 

With  its  broad  humanity. 

Behold!  a  sower  went  forth  to  sow 

Good  seed  in  the  Master's  field. 
The  tale  that  was  told,  in  the  long  ago, 

The  fruit  of  his  toil  revealed. 
And  another  parable  I  would  tell, 

Though  it  be  with  a  faltering  pen, 
Of  a  noble  soul  who  sows  so  well 

Good  deeds  in  the  hearts  of  men. 


And  though  some  of  them  fall  on  stony  ground 

And  bring  him  no  sweet  return, 
And  though  some  in  the  blazing  sun  are  found, 

Where  they  dry  and  wither  and  burn, 
There  are  others  that  fall  in  the  soil  of  love, 

And  up  from  the  swelling  seed, 
There  springeth  a  blessing  from  Heaven  above 

To  comfort  in  time  of  need. 

And  the  day  shall  come  when  the  sower  shall  reap 

And  the  peace  of  advancing  years 
Shall  be  sweet  as  a  long  and  dreamless  sleep, 

And  the  waking  free  from  tears. 
And  the  summons  shall  come  like  the  call  of  a  friend 

And  the  setting  of  life's  bright  sun 
Will  be  a  beginning,  and  not  an  end, 

For  the  Master  will  say,  "Well  done." 

July  18,  1897- 


10 


(JJUjor. 


[Miss  Bessie  Johnson  was  christened  "The  Major"  and  in  return  dubbed 
the  writer  with  the  title  of  "The  Governor."  A  bit  of  pleasantry  which, 
however,  has  fastened  the  names  to  their  respective  owners  as  though  with 
hooks  of  steel.] 

She's  a  sprightly  little,  active  little,  military  thing 

So  brimming  with  vitality  she  has  to  have  her  fling, 

She  must  see  Coney  Island,  if  she  does  it  on  the  sly, 

With  a  saucy  little  sailor  hat  aslant  across  her  eye. 

She  loves  to  shoot  the  rapids,  and  she  hopes  the  chain  will 

break; 
She  loves  to  shoot  the  chutes,  and  hopes  they'll  drown  her 

in  the  lake; 

She'll  stop  and  start  an  argument  at  every  crook  and  turn, 
She'd  never  quit,  except  for  breath,  for  she  has  words  to  burn; 
She  has  a  wondrous  faculty  for  shuffling  off  her  cares, 
She'd  rather  knock  a  tennis  ball  than  sit  and  say  her  prayers. 
When  once  she  takes  to  water,  why,  it's  hard  to  get  her  out, 
And  only  firm  parental  sway  can  manage  her,  no  doubt; 
And  yet  she  has  a  heart  within  as  pure  as  yellow  gold, 
She's  free  as  birds  upon  the  wing,  and  yet  she's  never  bold. 
She  has  a  deep  and  thoughtful  mind  where  motives  are  the  best, 
And  you  can  judge  of  what  she'll  do  by  what  she  has  confessed; 
At  first  you  think  she's  haughty — that  her  nose  is  in  the  air, 
But  later  on  you  have  to   own   you're  wrong,   she's  fair  and 

square. 

But  I  could  write  till  Doomsday  with  her  virtues  as  my  text, 
Her  vices  might  fill  half  a  page,  and  then  I'd  be  perplexed, 
And  after  all,  her  vices,  when  you  search  with  careful  eyes, 
You're  apt  to  find  are  virtues  too,  but  traveling  in  disguise. 
In  all  the  world  she  can't  be  matched  for  general  worth,  I'll 

wager, 
And  she's  my  right-hand  royal  pal,  my  best  right  bower,  the 

Major. 


II 


£offtn'0  (gdce  tm$  fflc 


[During  a  race  at  Fort  Hamilton  there  was  considerable  doubt  as  to  the 
harmony  existing  between  the  watches  of  various  timekeepers,  and  as  the 
time  allowance  barely  covered  the  advantage  in  crossing  the  line  the  race 
was  most  exciting.] 

I'm  a  weather  beaten  sailor, 

And  I've  sailed  the  briny  sea 
From  the  Straits  of  Madagascar 

To  the  Isle  of  Manatee; 
But  b'gosh  I'll  shift  my  scuppers 

And  I'll  likewise  shift  my  quid 
At  the  sailin'  o'  that  youngster 

They  call  Tom  Johnson's  kid. 

He  ain't  afraid  o'  water 

Nor  a  spillin'  in  the  deep, 
I've  seen  him  hangin'  over 

Where  flies  would  fear  to  creep; 
I'll  tell  ye  what  is,  sir, 

He's  made  o'  solid  stuff, 
He  knows  just  when  to  jibe  her, 

And  he  knows  just  when  to  luff. 

An'  he  kin  turn  a  buoy 

The  slickest  ever  wuz, 
He's  han'some  as  they  make  'em, 

An'  what  han'some  is,  it  does; 
He  ain't  no  tidy  creature 

When  he's  rigged  out  for  sport, 
Though  take  a  winter  evenin' 

And  on  clothes  he's  never  short. 


12 


I  seen  him  beat  young  Gelston, 

And  Gelston's  hired  men, 
A  holding  his  own  tiller 

To  make  an  honest  ten, 
Or  possibly  twuz  twenty, 

At  least  I  heerd  him  say 
"Seems  like  the  whole  creation 

Is  payin'  up  to-day." 

I'll  tell  you  what  it  is  though, 

Next  time  he  sails  a  race 
He'd  better  start  a  whisper 

A  travelin'  round  the  place, 
And  git  a  new  timekeeper, 

Whose  nose  ain't  out  o'  jint, 
So's  when  he's  watchin'  watches 

He'll  know  which  way  they  pint. 

The  wind  kept  gittin'  stiffer, 

And  when  he  crossed  the  line 
He  had  about  2:30 

By  this  old  watch  of  mine; 
And  ef  that  watch  o"  Gelston's 

Ain't  crooked  I'm  a  goat, 
For  it  jest  went  out  o'  business 

When  Loftin  passed  the  float. 


(&  Conundrum. 

TO  MISS  NARCISSUS  JOHNSON. 

A  little  flower  of  modest  mien 

Within   God's   garden   grows, 
And  finds  delight  and  happiness 

In  every  breeze  that  blows. 

A  flower  of  womanhood  divine 

Rejoices  on  life's  way, 
And  scatters  smiles  and  kindly  words 

About  her  day  by  day. 

The  little  flower  drinks  in  the  dew, 

The  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
In   fragrance   sweet  the   whole   day  through 

It  gives  it  back  again. 

Now  which  is  sweeter  of  the  two? 

Which  brings  the  greater  bliss? 
And   which    is    most   befitting   named, 

Since  both  will  rhyme  with  kiss? 

THE  ANSWER. 

We  have  to  add  a  syllable 
To   make  the  flower   "Narcissus," 

And  then  to  make  the  rhyme,  of  course, 
We  hope  Narciss  will  kiss  us. 


lot  $e  Idtjet. 


I  know  of  a  place,  away  from  the  world, 

Away  from  the  marts  of  trade, 
Where  a  living  fount  of  sunshine  flows 

And  where  happiness  is  made. 

You  may  draw  from  this  fount,  if  you  seek  the  right 

And  you  keep  your  conscience  clear; 
You  have  but  to  show  that  you're  good  and  true 

And  the  guardian  lets  you  near. 

I  found  this  fountain  by  accident 

In  the  lucky  long  ago, 
And  the  hours  I've  spent  at  the  fountainside 

Are  the  happiest  ones  I  know. 

For  I  drink  from  its  limpid,  crystal  depths, 

And  my  youth  comes  back  again, 
While  the  future  unfolds  in  beauty  sweet 

And  the  present  is  free  from  pain. 

But  when  you  have  drunk  from  this  fountain-head 

You  must  never  hold  back  the  pay, 
For  the  guardian  claims  you  must  give  back  love 

For  the  life  you  gain  each  day. 

And  the  more  you  drink,  the  more  you'll  gain, 

For  close  at  the  fountainside 
Are  the  brightest  and  sweetest  and  happiest  souls 

To  be  found  in  the  whole  world  wide. 

Can  you  guess  where  it  is;  do  you  know  where  to  find 

This  place  from  the  world  apart? 
It  is  here  in  the  tender  throb  and  thrill 

Of  big  Tom  Johnson's  heart. 


Jem's 


I  hold  that  age  is  not  a  thing 

To  reckon  up  by  years; 
You  count  the  smiles  along  life's  way 

And  measure  up  the  tears, 
And  then  you  strike  an  average 

Some  blissful,  happy  day, 
And  find  that,  while  the  tears  have  fled, 

The  smiles  have  come  to  stay. 
What  knows  the  heart  of  Time's  swift  flight, 

Safe  hid  within  the  breast; 
It  only  knows  that  life  is  drear 

When  filled  with  vague  unrest. 
It  knows  not  night,  it  knows  not  day, 

Nor  what  the  year  may  be, 
And  throbs  when  bidden  just  as  warm 

At  four  or  forty-three. 
Old  age  comes  not  when  hearts  are  fond 

And  tender  eyes  are  true; 
Old  age  is  but  a  punishment 

When  loving  words  are  few. 


i6 


for  tje 


I  have  written  a  rhyme  for  rollicking  Bess, 

My  little  right-bower,  God  bless  her; 
I  have  dwelt  on  the  charms  she  doth  possess 

And  the  spirits  that  possess  her; 
I  have  reeled  off  a  verse  for  bright  Narciss; 

I  have  stood  as  father  confessor, 
Advising  when,  where  and  how  to  kiss 

The  suitors  that  come  to  address  her. 

And  genial  Tom  has  had  his  rhymes 

In  profusion  ad  infinitum; 
In  fact,  he  has  suffered  so  many  times 

I  fear  he's  inclined  to  fight  'em. 
But  the  heart  within  has  a  sweeter  song, 

Unsung  for  the  lack  of  measure; 
Unuttered,  because  too  brief,  too  long — 

A  small  but  a  precious  treasure. 

So  small  it  is  compassed  in  one  small  word, 

Yet  as  wide  as  the  great  sea  swelling, 
And  a  sweeter  song  ear  never  heard 

Than  that  in  my  heart  upwelling; 
For  it  tells  of  courage  almost  divine, 

And  of  tenderness  God-given; 
It  tells  of  eyes  where  the  love-lights  shine 

And  of  sweetness  born  of  Heaven. 

It  tells  of  a  motherhood  so  sweet 

That  no  soul  can  rise  above  her; 
Of  children  who  sit  at  her  blessed  feet 

Through  the  live-long  day  and  love  her; 
It  tells  of  the  husband,  brave  and  strong, 

Of  the  steps  he  tries  to  save  her, 
And  of  compensation  all  day  long 

In  the  smiling  face  God  gave  her. 


It  murmurs  of  home  and  of  mother  love, 

The  sweetest  words  e'er  spoken — 
A  Heaven  below,  like  the  Heaven  above, 

The  links  of  love's  chain  unbroken. 
But  the  song  in  my  heart  is  sweeter  far, 

I  fail  in  its  fond  expression, 
As  the  glare  of  the  sun  or  the  gleam  of  a  star 

Falls  short  in  the  cloud's  repression. 

Some  day,  it  may  be  that  my  muse  will  sing 

In  a  riper  and  rounder  measure, 
And  my  faltering  feet  to  her  shrine  may  bring 

One  thought  that  may  bring  her  pleasure; 
And  then  I  shall  feel  that  I  have  not  striven 

In  selfish  pathways  solely, 
When  the  best  that  I  have  in  my  heart  is  given 

To  the  wife  and  mother  holy. 


i8 


(gutter* 


[Mrs.  Tom  L.  Johnson  had  celebrated  the  twenty-first  day  of  her  birth 
month  as  the  appropriate  date,  owing  to  a  slip  of  the  memory  on  the  part 
of  her  father.  A  family  Bible  later  was  found,  which  gave  the  birthday  as 
the  22d.] 

It's  a  terrible  thing  to  be  all  at  sea 

As  to  when  you  first  came  to  light; 
It  keeps  you  guessing  persistently 

If  the  matter  was  managed  right. 

It's  a  difficult  thing  to  figure  out 

Just  why  we  are  born  at  all. 
To  be  born  on  two  different  days,  no  doubt, 

Is  the  terriblest  thing  of  all. 

When  the  birthdays  come,  as  they  will,  worse  luck! 

In  the  flight  of  the  fleeting  years, 
We  make  them  a  season  of  jollity 
To  drown  the  regretful  tears. 

"Many  happy  returns!"  we  gaily  sing, 

As  we  toss  off  a  rollicking  rhyme, 
And  try  to  forget  that  we're  growing  old, 

But  we  can't  fool  Father  Time. 

I'm  speaking  of  men,  the  sons  of  toil — 

With  woman  'tis  not  so  bad; 
She  simply  measures  her  matchless  charms 

By  the  birthdays  she  has  had. 


If  a  woman  at  thirty  is  fair  to  see, 

At  forty  she's  sweeter  far, 
And  the  lovely  traits  of  the  past  give  way 

To  the  lovelier  ones  that  are. 

Her  voice  grows  softer,  her  touch  more  kind, 

As  the  silver  streaks  her  hair, 
And  her  children  mirror  her  golden  youth, 

And  all  seems  fond  and  fair. 

And  whether  a  Corn-Cracker  celebrates, 

On  a  day  marked  twenty-one, 
Or  waits  for  the  favored  twenty-two, 

What  matters  the  time  'tis  done? 

What  matters  it  whether  a  Buckeye  brand 
Hangs  over  the  christening  shrine? 

Or  whether  Missouri's  cognomen 
Sets  seal  on  the  poet's  line. 

It  is  all  the  same  if  the  heart  within 
Beats  warm  with  the  pulse  of  love, 

And  the  record  is  kept  of  joy,  not  years, 
In  the  big  book  up  above? 

And  what  is  a  year  when  all  is  told? 

Tis  a  kiss  and  a  sigh  and  a  tear, 
A  trembling  joy  and  a  blasted  hope, 

A  smile  and  a  moment's  fear. 


20 


But  the  tear  will  dry  and  the  sigh  must  pass 

When  a  new-found  hope  is  born, 
And  the  kiss  and  the  smile  and  the  joy  live  on 

'Till  the  everlasting  morn. 

So  whether  it  be  the  twenty-first 

Or  the  twenty-second  day, 
And  whether  it  comes  in  Summer's  heat 

Or  amongst  the  flowers  of  May. 

A  birthday  is  only  a  fitting  place 

For  a  tuneful  rhyming  line, 
A  fitting  time  for  the  tribute  due 

To  womanhood  divine. 


21 


(AN  OPINION  UNASKED.) 

[A  bit  of  verse  written  for  a  special  occasion  and  handled  somewhat 
freely  because  of  its  mythologic  character  aroused  the  gentle  indignation 
of  a  most  delicate  and  refined  nature.  The  following  poem  was  the  result, 
which  came  indirectly  to  the  eye  of  the  writer  of  the  somewhat  startling 
verses  and  suggested  the  defence  which  follows,  called  the  Point  of  View.] 

It  seems  to  me  that  in  this  life 

There  is  one  sacred  theme, 
So  holy  e'en  the  poet's  touch 

Defiles  its  tender  dream. 

It  seems  to  me,  God's  wondrous  gifts 

Are  sacred  trusts  from  Heaven, 
Thro'  which  His  message  of  love  and  peace 

To  the  minds  of  men  is  given. 

It  seems  to  me  who  bears  the  stamp 

Of  genius  in  his  heart 
Should  give  his  life,  his  mind,  his  soul, 

To  elevate  his  art. 

It  seems  to  me  whose  hand  despoils 

Fair  Art's  sweet  purity, 
His  brow  should  bear  the  traitor's  brand 

Of  shame  and  infamy. 

It  seems  to  me  whose  powers  can  chain 

A  glimpse  of  Paradise, 
To  raise  the  thoughts  of  men  to  God 

Therein  his  glory  lies. 

Pure  thoughts,  brave  deeds,  God-given  joys 

Which  live  eternally, 
Are  themes  most  worthy  master  minds, 

Or  so  it  seems  to  me. 


22 


(point  of  (gittt. 


There's  a  griffin  set  high  on  the  cornice  there 

On  that  towering  pile  of  stone, 
And  a  lion  rampant,  at  either  end, 
Stands  guarding  his  corner  alone. 
As  you  gaze  aloft  at  the  dizzy  height 

They  grin  with  a  lifelike  glee, 
And  you  think:     "The  sculptor  who  carved  that  stone, 

What  a  wondrous  man  is  he!" 
But  climb  with  me  to  that  cornice  high, 

And  speechless  will  be  your  tongue; 
They  might  have  been  carved  by  an  Aztec  child 

In  the  days  when  the  world  was  young, 
So  rough  and  so  rugged  those  faces  grim, 

Of  the  griffin  and  lions  bold. 
"Chance  held  the  chisel,"  you  whisper  low, 

And  the  length  of  your  tale  is  told. 
But  back  of  those  blocks  stood  a  thinking  mind, 

Which  knew  what  was  best  to  do, 
For  it  said:     "What  the  world  may  say  or  think 

Depends  on  the  point  of  view." 
The  wicked  young  man  of  the  Orient, 

With  a  dozen  dainty  wives, 
We  say,  in  this  civilized,  Christianized  land, 

Is  making  a  wreck  of  their  lives, 
And  we  send  to  him  quickly  a  godly  man 

At  a  rate  that  is  easy  to  fix, 
And  say  he  is  doing  a  glorious  work 

If  he  brings  him  down  to  six. 
There  are  sermons  in  stones.    There  are  prayers  let  fall 

Sometimes  with  an  oath  each  side. 
We  never  should  say:     " 'Tis  a  silver  shield," 

For  it  may  be  of  gold  inside. 


If  whatever  I  touch,  when  it  leaves  my  hand 

Is  cleaner  than  when  it  came 
I  can  look  my  mother  straight  in  the  face 

And  feel  no  blush  of  shame. 
If  an  Angelo,  in  the  chiselled  stone, 

Can  bid  the  pulses  start; 
If  Correggio,  with  immortal  brush, 

Can  send  a  glow  to  the  heart. 
Is  the  throb  and  thrill  of  human  life 

So  shocking,  so  vile  a  thing 
That  we  must  to-day,  to  Diana's  bath, 

A  modern  mantle  bring? 
You,  lady  fair,  live  nearer  to  God 

Where  the  heart  of  Nature  sings, 
And  the  birds  and  the  clouds  and  the  sunbeams  fair 

Sweet  peace  as  a  tribute  brings. 
We  potters  that  model  in  city  clay 

Must  mold  as  it  comes  to  our  hands, 
Not  "What  we  need,"  "What  we  want"  is  the  cry 

We  answer  to  these  demands. 
The  text  of  the  preacher  in  Timbuctoo 

And  that  of  a  great  divine 
Are  wide  apart  as  the  poles  of  earth, 

But  which  will  the  brighter  shine? 
The  words  of  the  one  may  beckon  sleep, 

While  the  preacher  of  Timbuctoo 
May  pluck  from  the  fire  a  burning  brand — 

It  depends  on  the  point  of  view. 
I  have  written  songs  of  a  soulful  kind, 

Unprinted  they  still  remain; 
I  have  voiced  some  love-lorn  madrigals 

Begotten  in  pleasant  pain; 
I  have  sung  a  few  brief  lullabys, 

And  mothers  have  said  "How  sweet!" 


I  have  written  hymns  for  the  Sunday-school; 

I  have,  hungry,  walked  the  street; 
I  have  taken  a  mythologic  tale 

And  placed  it  in  rhyming  verse; 
I  have  tried  to  make  it  cleaner,  because 

It  couldn't  be  very  much  worse; 
I  have  measured  its  wording  carefully 

And  scanned  every  halting  line, 
Then  sent  it  forth,  and  the  verdict  was, 

"Say,  when  can  you  come  and  dine?" 
So  I'd  rather  live  in  the  hearts  of  my  friends, 

And  smile  while  life  is  sweet, 
Than  lay  up  treasures  in  some  fair  land 

While,  living,  I  walk  the  street. 
And  the  question  comes,  If  you  do  your  best 

What  else  is  there  left  to  do? 
Oh,  if  only  the  world  would  learn  to  say, 

It  depends  on  the  point  of  view. 


[Shortly  after  the  writer  met  the  author  of  the  little  poem  and  found  her 
on  the  eve  of  marriage.  Love's  dream  was  at  its  fullest  and  naturally  gave 
rise  to  the  following.] 


It  is  so  easy,  now,  to  see 

Your  "point  of  view," 
Love's  sunrise  breaking  in  your  sky 

And  flooding  you 
With  roseate  gleams,  all  golden  bright, 

And  not  a  cloud — 
No  wonder  love  is  far  too  sweet 

To  breathe  aloud. 

O!  gentle  critic,  now  my  friend, 

As  I  am  yours, 
I  pray  your  happiness  may  last 

While  life  endures. 
Man  changes  not  in  one  brief  hour; 

But  this  is  true: 
In  sweeter  strain  my  muse  shall  sing 

Because  of  you. 


26 


to  (Jttt. 


[The  following  dainty  bit  of  verse  will  show  that,  in  spite  of  their  quarrel 
of  rhymes  before  meeting,  mutual  explanations  were  sufficiently  convincing 
to  make  them  friends.] 


You  say  'tis  easy  now  to  see  my  "point  of  view;" 
Ah,  "friend,"  my  heart  were  glad  indeed  if  it  were  true, 

For  then  to  you  would  come  that  inner  light  God  gives  to  few, 
That  faith,  nor  life,  nor  death  should  bar  love's  way  for  her 
and  you 

And  if,  perchance,  my  pen  should  touch  a  tender  wound, 
Forgive — the  heart-strings  gently  swayed,  perforce  rebound, 
And  since  for  me  all  joy,  all  love,  all  hope  in  life  is  found, 
My  heart's  deep  sympathy  must  overflow  and  all  surround. 

And  thus,  "dear  friend,"  my  prayer  shall  be  that  for  you,  too, 
Love's  sun  may  rise  and  gild  your  life  with  rosy  hue, 

And  when  in  pleasant  memories  my  thoughts  revert  to  you 
Your  critic's  pride  will  swell  to  know  she  "changed  your  pomt 
of  view." 


There  are  some  bits  of  porcelain 

By  angels  planned, 
Of  fragile  texture,  dainty  hue; 

No  clumsy  hand 
Can  hope  to  take  and  care  for  such 

In  vain  desire 
Lest  first  his  touch  be  purified 

By  flame  and  fire. 

To  stand  apart  and  reverence, 

As  I  now  do; 
To  feel  I  never  may  attain 

Her  point  of  view; 
Alone  is  mine,  and  if  I  may 

Some  service  bring 
My  soul  soars  high  to  where  I  hear 

The  angels  sing. 

Sometimes  I  feel,  somewhere  within, 

A  better  self; 
But  when  beside  the  porcelain 

I  am  but  delf. 
I  may  not  touch  its  daintiness, 

And  even  though 
I  bear  a  cross,  what  matters  it? 

'Tis  better  so. 


She  knits  her  brows  and  puckers  her  mouth 

And  the  chess  men  lose  their  charm, 
My  senses  swim  as  I  see  the  sweep 

Of  a  white  and  tapering  arm. 
No  matter  how  much  I  should  retreat, 

No  man  of  them  all  I  stir, 
For  I  haven't  the  heart  to  give  them  place 

That  is  further  away  from  her. 

My  knights  will  gallop  across  the  board, 

And  the  pawns  trudge  on  behind, 
The  bishops  cut  cross-lots  recklessly 

To  snares  and  pitfalls  blind, 
And  even  my  castles,  with  lumbering  gait, 

Fall  in  with  a  solemn  tread, 
And  my  queen  goes  gossiping  here  and  there, 

As  though  she  had  lost  her  head. 

Then  I  shake  myself  with  a  mental  shake, 

Lest  I  suffer  complete  disgrace, 
But  my  thoughts  go  wandering  over  the  squares 

To  dwell  on  that  thoughtful  face; 
Then  "Check!"  says  a  voice  with  a  chuckle,  behind, 

I  snap  up  a  pawn — too  late ! 
What  a  capital  move!     What  a  pretty  hand! 

What  a — Caesar's  ghost!  Checkmate! 


QJtorning 


To  lie  full  length  on  the  couch  of  sleep 

When  the  joys  of  the  day  are  done; 
To  press  the  pillow  in  slumber  deep 

And  dream  of  the  kiss  of  the  sun; 
To  feel  the  whispering  winds  of  night 

Flow  soft  from  the  open  sea, 
And  lull  your  senses  till  morning's  light 

Is  Heaven  enough  for  me. 

The  golden  streets  and  the  gates  of  pearl, 

The  crown  and  the  songs  of  praise, 
The  harp  that  sets  your  brain  in  a  whirl 

As  you  play  for  a  million  days; 
The  constant  exchange  of  compliment 

As  the  angels  say:     "Well  done!" 
These  hints  to  the  soul  are  kindly  meant, 

But  they  don't  suggest  much  fun. 

I'd  rather  struggle  and  strive  and  lose 

In  the  race  that  we  know  as  life 
If  those  that  I  love  I  may  pick  and  choose 

For  companions  in  the  strife. 
I'm  perfectly  willing  to  stagger  along 

With  a  thousand  trembling  fears 
If  those  who  give  ear,  as  I  sing  this  song, 

Would  stay  for  a  thousand  years. 


Cifg  of  ffle  ©tab. 


[Written  on  the  fly-leaf  of    a    book  while  passing    Greenwood,  en  route 
from  Fort  Hamilton  by  the  Nassau  line.] 


Where  waves  of  grass-grown,  dewy  sod 

Spread  out  before  the  eye 
There  sleep  in  peace  the  ranks  of  God. 

No  more  the  battle-cry 
Of  "Up,  to  arms!"  rings  in  their  ears 
For  over  them  resistless  years 

In  solemn  silence  fly. 

Somewhere  beyond  the  great  unknown 

The  rallying  cry  shall  ring; 
When  Life,  and  Death,  and  Time  are  flown; 

Then  'round  the  Almighty  King 
Ten  thousand  myriad  souls  shall  rise 
And  songs  of  praise  shall  fill  the  skies, 

And  God  shall  claim  his  own. 


©wrfinguteljeb  (pdrfg  on  a  QBenber. 


[The  Hon.  Clifton  Breckenridge,  ex-Minister  to  Russia;  Judge  Pirtle,  of 
Kentucky;  Tom  L.  Johnson  and  his  son,  Loftin;  Mr.  Horatio  Ward,  and 
the  writer,  made  the  party  in  the  private  trolley  car  for  an  evening's 
amusement  at  Coney  Island.] 


The  Ambassador  sat  in  his  easy  chair 

In  the  private  trolley  car, 
By  his  stately  mien  and  his  air  serene 

You  could  see  he  had  traveled  far; 
And  he  puffed  away  at  a  fragrant  weed 

Of  a  brand  that  always  suits, 
And  this  was  the  theme  of  the  statesman's  dream, 

"I'm  a-going  to  shoot  the  chutes." 

And  a  stalwart  judge  from  the  sunny  South 

A  man  of  brawn  and  brain, 
With  a  dignified  air  sat  quietly  there 

With  a  look  of  mild  disdain, 
And  he  spoke  of  the  nation  and  its  affairs, 

But  at  last  he  put  up  his  boots 
On  the  opposite  chair,  and  says:     "What  d'ye  care! 

We're  a-going  to  shoot  the  chutes." 

And  the  man  that  stole  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 

From  under  the  city's  nose, 
With  good  purpose,  no  doubt,  he  spread  himself  out 

For  a  presidential  doze 
And  a  possible  dream  of  some  trolley  line 

And  its  fine  financial  fruits, 
But  the  thought  in  his  breast  was  the  same  as  the  rest, 

"I'm  a-going  to  shoot  the  chutes." 


And  the  poet  picked  up  his  paper  and  pen 

For  a  snapshot  shoot  at  them, 
And  he  said  to  his  muse:     "Something  crisp  to  amuse 

A  bright  little  sparkling  gem." 
But  the  muse  looked  scorn,  and  the  poet  blushed 

To  the  place  where  his  hair  had  roots 
As  he  said:    "Please  excuse  me  a  minute,  my  muse, 

"I'm  a-going  to  shoot  the  chutes." 

And  I've  noticed  that  deacons  and  deep  divines 

And  pillars  of  churches,  too, 
Walk  around  with  a  smile  when  at  Coney  Isle 

And  God  knows  the  things  they  do. 
And  I've  noticed  as  well,  though  I  never  would  tell, 

When  sober  men  go  on  these  toots — 
They  have  very  queer  fits,  if  a  pretty  girl  sits 

On  the  seat  when  they're  shooting  the  chutes. 

"Say,  Governor,  say,"  shout  Loftin  and  Ray, 

We  shared  in  that  push  you  recall. 
Just  briefly  rehearse  in  a  musical  verse 

That  we  don't  arrive  after  the  ball. 
Then  the  rhymester  exclaims:  '  i  can  rhyme  to  your  names, 

But  there's  nothing  left  rhyming  with  chutes." 
'Why  you  busted  old  poet,  there's  one  and  I  know  it," 

Says  Loftin.     "Fill  in  with  galoots." 


[A  letter  to  "The  Major"  just  after  her  sailing  for  Paris.  The  summer 
home  of  the  Johnsons  at  the  Narrows  commands  a  view  of  the  stoppages  of 
steamships  at  the  Quarantine  Station.] 

Sunday. 

Dear  Little  Major:  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  a  stretch  of  water  tangles 
up  the  heart-strings  so  much  more  than  a  stretch  of  land!  Loftin's  old 
rubber-soled  shoes  hang  around  the  house  in  a  nonchalant  sort  of  a  way, 
and  if  we  stumble  over  them  we  kick  them  under  the  bed  and  say:  "God 
bless  him!"  but  if  we  suddenly  come  upon  a  pair  of  red  stockings  curled 
up  in  the  grass  we  fold  them  wet  and  dripping  to  our  bosoms  and  mingle 
briny  tears  with  the  salt  water  of  the  Narrows. 

We  plunged  into  the  sea  to-day  and  begged  the  tides  to  tell  us  tales  of 
mid-ocean  and  a  swish  and  swash  on  the  beach  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  a  whispered  "Bess,"  but  it  gave  us  no  definite  information. 

To-night  the  Georges  are  sleeping  in  sight  of  their  home  and  the  twink 
ling  lights  of  the  Victoria,  could  they  but  carry  passengers  over  their 
track  of  light,  could  do  a  rushing  business  in  the  George  family.  Your 
papa  and  I  went  out  in  the  launch  and  hailed  them.  They  seemed  like 
messengers  from  you  for  somewhere;  away  out  on  the  broad  Atlantic 
they  had  been  nearer  to  you  than  any  living  being  within  the  sound  of  our 
voices.  They  wanted  us  to  bring  them  ashore,  but,  knowing  as  we  did  that 
it  was  simply  a  ruse  to  avoid  paying  duty  on  the  crown  jewels  of  Europe, 
we  refused  to  compound  the  felony. 

All  of  us  members  of  the  family  are  breathing  short,  little  prayers  be 
tween  meals  and  long  ones  night  and  morning,  hoping  to  influence  the 
powers  that  be  to  so  shape  their  minds  and  thoughts  that  they  will  hunger 
for  mountain  air  when  they  land  to-morrow  morning.  Your  mamma  took 
twc  launch  rides  to-day  and  climbed  the  hill  twice  in  broad  daylight  and 
without  the  aid  of  a  net.  I  think  that  I  detected  a  little  twinkle  of  de- 
spisery  in  her  eye  as,  with  calm  and  unruffled  breath,  she  looked  at  us 
puffing  up  the  last  turn.  I  am  expecting  that  she  will  challenge  me  to-mor 
row  or  next  day  to  a  Graeco-Roman  wrestling  match  on  the  tennis  court; 
best  three  in  five,  the  loser  to  walk  down  Broadway  in  Justine's  bathing 
suit  and  my  shouting  socks.  If  the  Georges  insist  upon  being  bitten  by 
their  own  mosquitoes,  a  large  tent  will  be  erected  on  the  Johnson  premises, 
where  meals  will  be  served  at  all  hours  and  questions  answered  at  evening 
service.  As  we  came  up  to-night  we  met  Helen,  Maud  and  Miss  Getty,  with 
a  train  of  your  faithless  suitors  dangling  at  their  heels,  en  route  for  the 
dock.  They  asked  us  to  join  them,  but  we  said:  "No,  we  would  rather 


34 


scratch  bites  on  the  porch  in  silence  and  think  of  the  absent  one  than  to  be 
dcor-tenders  at  Weber  and  Fields."  Marshall,  Horatio,  Stanley  and  all  of 
them  would  send  love  if  they  were  here — no,  on  second  thoughts,  they 
wouldn't,  for  I  have  retired,  and  were  some  of  them  here  they  would  im 
mediately  proceed  to  have  seven  kinds  of  epileptic  fits  and  rush  off  for 
Irene  Johnson  to  come  and  teach  me  the  error  of  my  ways. 

1  suppose  you  want  all  the  latest  news  and  your  mamma's  letter  was 
mailed  at  midday,  so  only  the  events  of  vital  interest  occurring  since  then 
are  within  my  province. 

The  cat  still  sleeps  on  the  front  door-step 

And  wags  a  lazy  tail, 
The  mosquitoes  cling  in  the  dear  old  way 

And  get  there  without  fail. 

Your  bathing  suit  hangs  out  on  the  line 

And  really  makes  me  laugh, 
For  it  doesn't  look  as  graceful  now 

As  it  does  in  the  photograph. 

The  water  is  wet  and  the  jokes  are  dry, 

But  the  very  best  joke  of  all 
Is  this:    "If  I  sell  the  Fruitman's  Guide 

I'll  give  the  salute  in  the  fall." 

The  cousins  come  and  the  cousins  go, 

Short,  slim,  tall,  dark  and  fair; 
I  called  some  "cousin"  myself  to-day 

And  they  never  turned  a  hair. 

But  Major,  my  dear  little  comrade  friend, 

Aside  from  the  daily  news 
There's  something  lacking  about  the  house 

That  gives  me  a  touch  of  the  blues. 

I  miss  the  bright  little  merry  laugh, 

And  the  peeling  of  breakfast  fruit, 
And  the  breeze  and  the  snap,  and  the  winsome  smile 

And  I  miss  my  little  salute. 


35 


But  what  I  feel  is  a  little  thing, 

A  leaf  in  the  torrent's  whirl; 
To  what  the  mother's  heart  must  miss 

In  the  love  of  her  baby  girl. 

For  we  never  grow  big  in  our  parents'  hearts 

Whatever  we  do  outside, 
And  they  hold  us  ever  with  leading  strings 

As  a  safeguard  and  a  guide. 

So  if  ever  the  whirl  of  the  wicked  world 
Should  touch  but  your  garment's  hem, 

Or  if  ever  temptations  should  cross  your  path 
And  you  feel  allured  by  them, 

It  is  safe  to  ask  of  your  inmost  heart: 

"Would  mother  say:  yes  or  no?" 
And  the  answer  given  by  your  conscience  clear 

Will  tell  you  the  way  to  go. 

Great  Scot!  but  I'm  preaching  a  sermon  here 

To  the  little  Major,  too, 
Who  can   give  me  cards  and  spades  besides 

On  things  that  are  best  to  do. 

But  a  kindly  word  from  an  honest  heart 

Can  never  go  far  astray, 
And  the  tender  soul  of  the  thought  will  live 

Though  the  words  may  pass  away. 

Drink  deep  at  the  fountain  of  culture,  Bess, 

Where  the  priceless  pearls  of  art 
Give  breadth  and  depth  to  your  daily  life 
.And  the  nobler  throb  to  the  heart. 


I'm  nodding  now  to  the  God  of  Sleep, 

You'll  pardon  me,  Major,  dear, 
It  isn't  good  form  to  wake,  you  know, 

With  a  fountain  pen  in  your  ear. 

So,  Halt!    'Bout  face!    Eyes  right!    Salute! 

My  superior  officer,  Ma'am! 
I'd  write  all  night  for  a  single  sight 

Of  you  and  I  wouldn't  say 

anything  that  could  bring  the  blush  of  shame  to  the  cheek  of 
modesty. 

"THE  GOVERNOR." 


37 


I  have  sung  a  few  songs, 

Touched  here  and  touched  there, 
Like  an  idle  winged  bird 

That  flies  anywhere; 

But  my  notes  are  not  true 

And  my  wings  are  not  strong — 
The  heart  throbs  are  hid 

In  the  soul  of  the  song. 

To  the  busy  old  world 

'Tis  a  jingle  of  rhyme 
That  lives  but  a  breath 

In  the  cycle  of  time; 
But  the  thought  which,  unseen, 

Mocks  the  verse-maker's  art, 
Blights  the  bloom  of  the  rose, 

Leaving  thorns  in  my  heart. 


'B  Cfocl 

[Mr.   Tom  Johnson,  when  calling  upon  the   writer  one  day,   asked  why 
there  was  no  clock  in  the  apartment.    The  reply  follows.] 

I  have  given  my  clock  to  the  old  clothes  man; 

It  has  gone  from  my  house  to  stay, 
And  clocks  are  forevermore  under  ban 

For  the  night  as  well  as  the  day. 
Like  a  constant  menace  its  voice  has  been, 

As  it  ticked  my  life  away, 
And  carelessly  piled  up  years  between 

My  joys  and  the  hair  grown  gray. 

The  bachelor  murmurs  a  snatch  of  song: 
"Ah,  nobody  cares  for  me." 
"Not  a  whit!     Not  a  bit! 
Not  a  bit!     Not  a  whit!" 
And  that  was  the  way  my  clock  answered  it; 
And  so  to  the  old  clothes  man,  you  see, 
It  shall  evermore  belong. 

The  woodman  stands  by  the  forest  oak, 

And  his  axe  is  bright  and  keen; 
It  gleams  in  the  light,  and  at  every  stroke 

He  buries  its  silver  sheen. 
His  arm  is  strong  and  the  flying  chips 

Group  round  in  a  circle  wide, 
Till  at  last  to  the  earth  the  old  oak  slips 

And  prone  is  its  power  and  pride. 

The  woodman  murmurs  a  snatch  of  song: 
"Ah,  nobody  cares  for  me." 
With  a  clip!     And  a  chip! 
And  a  chippety  clip! 
'Twas  a  mighty  oak,  but  chip  by  chip 

The  woodman  conquered  the  old  oak  tree, 
Unmindful  of  right  or  wrong. 


39 


And  I  was  the  oak  but  a  space  gone  by, 

And  my  clock  was  the  woodman  grim, 
And  the  chips  were  the  moments  and  hours  that  fly 

Through  the  day  and  the  darkness  dim. 
If  I  woke  in  the  night  it  was  chipping  away, 

With  stroke  on  stroke  like  a  knell, 
With  never  a  pause  for  the  happy  day 

When  I  loved  each  moment  well. 

But  now,  if  I  murmur  a  snatch  of  song: 
"Ah,  nobody  cares  for  me." 
Not  a  whit!     Not  a  bit! 
Not  a  bit!     Not  a  whit! 
No  clock  that  is  soulless  will  answer  it, 
For  it's  gone  to  the  old  clothes  man,  you  see, 
And  to  him  it  shall  ever  belong. 


QRcunifeb. 


Somewhere,  in  mystic  shades  of  No-man's-land, 

Long  aeons  past, 
I've  known  the  pressure  of  your  trembling  hand, 

Too  sweet  to  last. 

By  some  mysterious  fate,  ere  love  came  true 

We  went  astray, 
And,   groping  on,  the   shifting  shadows  through, 

I  lost  my  way. 

Long  ages  rolled  in  solemn  silence  by. 

Your  soul  and  mine 
Chanced  not  to  meet,  where  kindred  spirits  fly, 

In  summer  shine. 

Eyes,  voice  and  soul,  in  subtle  sweet  refrain, 

Once  more  hold  sway; 
Hold  close;  I  would  not  wish  so  soon  again 

To  lose  my  way. 


€t>t  feittfe  <Bo0eq>. 

Onc't  ther'  wuz  a  woman,  an' 

She  come  tu  call  on  Ma, 
An'  Ma  went  out  an'  left  her  ther', 

A  talkin'  tu  my  Pa; 
An'  she  wuz  tellin'  how  a  gurrl 

What  lives  acrosst  the  road, 
Wuz  goin'  tu  a  party  an' 

Got  kissed  afore  she  knowed. 

The  man  what  done  it  only  said, 

He  felt  like  havin'  fun; 
But  when  she  told  her  brother  George 

He  chased  him  with  a  gun. 
And  Aunt  Mariar's  gittin'  old, 

An'  sez  thet  "Gurrls  don't  think 
When  men  begins  to  kiss  'em,  they're 

A-tremblin'  on  a  brink." 

"An'  soon  or  late  they've  got  tu  fall, 

A  prey  tu  vain  desires, 
An'  scorch  an'  sputter  all  the'r  lives 

In  Hell's  eturrnal  fires." 
An'  Ricketty  Ann  thet  works  fur  us, 

She  snooted  up  her  nose, 
An',  sort  of  disrespeckful  like, 

Sez,  "Aunt  Mariar  knows." 

But  Uncle  Bill,  he  up  an'  sez 

"Thet  laws  ort  tu  be  made, 
So's  when  a  feller  wants  a  kiss 

He  needn't  be  afraid. 
Fur  them  as  likes  tu  hug  an'  kiss 

A  few  selected  fren's, 
Ain't  built  the  same  as  them  as  goes 

Behine'  the  door  with  mens." 


An'  Mellatissa  Butterworth 

She  sez  tu  o'r  gurrl  Ann, 
"She  ain't  afraid  tu  go  behine' 

The  door  with  any  man, 
An'  what  he  sez,  an'  what  he  does 

Is  jest  her  own  affair, 
An'  them  as  talks  about  her,  why- 

They  better  jest  take  care." 

An'  Pa,  he  heerd  her  say  it,  an' 

He  sez,  "Now  Mellatiss, 
I  guess  I'll  tek  ye  up  on  thet 

An'  try  an'  git  a  kiss." 
An'  Ma  jest  then  wuz  comin'  in 

An'  pointed  tu  the  door, 
An'  Mellatissa  Butterworth 

Don't  call  on  us  no  more. 


43 


A  cannibal  maid,  with  strong  white  teeth, 

Sat  up  in  a  tree  one  day, 
And  a  missionary  paused  beneath 

For  a  pious  little  pray. 
The  man  was  fair  and  the  maid  was  young, 

And  she  showed  that  her  heart  was  smit; 
She  could  only  say  "Goo"  in  her  native  tongue, 

But  his  prayers  had  made  a  hit. 

So  the  man  climbed  up  as  the  maid  climbed  down, 
And  they  met  on  a  big,  stout  limb, 

And  they  swung  their  feet,  as  he  said  "My  sweet," 
And  she  said  "Goo"  to  him. 

They  sat  very  close  on  the  big,  stout  limb, 

And  he  taught  her  how  to  pray, 
And  he  taught  her  to  say  "Kiss  me"  to  him 

In  a  fascinating  way. 
And  he  cared  no  more  to  idly  roam, 

For  her  lips  were  ruby  red, 
The  godly  man  was  far  from  home 

And  he  straightway  lost  his  head. 

So  they  sat  up  closer  and  closer  still 

In  their  seat  on  the  big,  stout  limb, 
And  they  swung  their  feet  as  he  said  "My  sweet" 

And  she  said  "Goo"  to  him. 

But  the  cannibal  maid  was  sorely  vexed, 

And  she  knew  not  what  to  do; 
The  habits  formed  in  her  youth  perplexed, 

As  she  softly  murmured  "Goo." 
So  tender  and  sweet  the  young  man  seemed, 

She  thought:    "What  a  lovely  stew 
Or  a  roast  he'd  make."     But  she  dreamed  of  love 

As  she  softly  murmured  "Goo." 


44 


So  she  cuddled  up  closer  and  closer  still 

In  her  seat  on  the  big,  stout  limb, 
And  they  swung  their  feet  as  he  said  "My  sweet," 

And  she  said  "Goo"  to  him. 

But  time  sped  on,  and  the  noonday  sun 

Looked  down  from  the  sky  one  day, 
And  saw  that  the  race  of  love  was  run; 

She  had  dined  in  her  own  sweet  way, 
For  she  sat  alone  on  the  big,  stout  limb, 

And  she  looked  like  a  dear  young  bride, 
While  the  groom!     She  murmured  at  thought  of  him: 

"How  happy  I  feel — inside!" 

But  she  missed  him  sadly  in  after  days, 

In  her  seat  on  the  big,  stout  limb, 
For  he  couldn't  say  "Sweet"  as  she  swung  her  feet, 

And  she  couldn't  say  "Goo"  to  him. 


45 


"fc  £tttfe  (gif  o'  ffoff." 

Dar's  gwine  ter  be  a  little  poker  party, 

An'  it's  gwine  ter  be  at  Mr.  Tompkin's  flat; 
An'  the  welcome  is  x'stended  very  hearty 

To  the  place  where  it's  a  gwine  to  happen  at. 
No  gen'nleman's  admitted  wid  a  razzor; 

It's  a  gwine  ter  be  a  quiet  sittin'  in; 
De  banker  don'  accept  no  razzle-dazzle; 

Yo'  got  to  buy  yo'  chips  when  yo'  begin. 

Did  yo'  evah  stan'  pat 

On  a  bob-tail  flush? 
Did  yo'  evah  make  a  short,  straight  bluff? 

Ef  yo'  nevah  did,  ma  honey 

It's  the  way  to  blow  yer  money, 
For  it  leaves  you  like  a  little  bit  of  fluff. 

Oh,  a  little  bit  o'  fluff  (puff,  puff), 

Jes'  a  little  bit  of  fluff  (puff,  puff), 

Ef  you  nevah  did,  ma  honey, 

It's  the  way  to  blow  yer  money, 
For  it  leaves  you  like  a  little  bit  of  fluff. 

Las'  Sunday,  at  de  Church  o'  Zion  meetin', 

Dey  took  a  big  collection  fo'  de  rent. 
Seben  dollahs  an'  a  half  dey  took  in  nickles; 

De  pahson  said  de  cash  wuz  Heaven  sent. 
Dat  night  de  pahson's  luck  was  dead  agin'  him, 

For  Deacon  Brown  he  struck  a  bullet  full, 
And  Deacon  Smith  had  triplets  to  go  in  on, 

But  Deacon  Jones'  four  ten-spots  had  de  pull. 

(Chorus.) 


46 


So  if  any  of  you  come  to  Tompkin's  party, 

Remember  what  the  pahson  didn't  know — 
Dat  standin'  pat  may  seem  a  little  smarty, 

But  bluffin'  for  a  dollar  doesn't  go. 
It's  mighty  nice  to  hab  a  Church  of  Zion, 

When  funds  get  low  you  only  pass  de  hat; 
But  when  yo'  have  to  wuk  to  earn  yo'  living 

Jes'  quit  yo  foolish  nonsense,  standin'  pat. 

(Chorus.) 


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